


hush, hush, hush (here comes the bogeyman)

by cutterjohns



Category: Terrifier (2018)
Genre: Backstory, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Character Study, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drabble, Drug Addiction, Gen, Gun Violence, Headcanon, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Misogyny, Murder, Rare Characters, Rare Fandoms, Scary Clowns, Serial Killers, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutterjohns/pseuds/cutterjohns
Summary: When you have to explain a joke, it isn’t so funny anymore.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	hush, hush, hush (here comes the bogeyman)

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I don't even know where this came from. When I watched _Terrifier_ about two years ago, I absolutely hated it. I would not watch it from beginning to end ever again, nor would I recommend it to anybody - and yet Art's character still managed to worm his way into my head. I give full credit to David Howard Thornton's amazing performance for that, and have nothing but praise for the man. I hope he continues to find success as a horror icon and as an actor in general, because based on what I've seen he's nothing but kind to his fans and co-workers. Furthermore, I've been following behind-the-scenes coverage for _Terrifier 2_ and believe that the sequel will be a far more enjoyable, plot-heavy film as opposed to its mean-spirited predecessor. I'm willing to give it a shot when it comes out and will hopefully like it a lot more.
> 
> Without further ado! Here's my take on quite possibly the nastiest character who's ever lived rent-free inside my head. (Please send help.)

You’re not sure what’ll kill you first — the endless stretch of tedium that surrounds you, or the crank. At least if it’s the crank, you’ll go out riding high with a smile on your face. You can't seem to manage those without the aid of your powder or your pills or your needles ( _or a fist wrapped tightly around some stupid whore’s throat_ ). Without your high, the world feels grey and murky, like you’re caught in the middle of a sick joke.

( _You always **were** a bit late to the __punchline, weren’t you, Arthur?_ )

* * *

Their judgment burns you as they pass by. _Parasite,_ they hiss. _Deadbeat. Waste of space. You don't belong here.  
_

If the child inside hadn’t already withered away, the rejection might have hurt him. But he’s long-gone, and the empty shell in his place meets those prying gazes and waits. Go long without blinking, without breathing, and it tends to scare people. Peel your lips back and bare the teeth that rot in your head and they cower, grabbing their young and pulling them out of your sight.  
  
You think it's fucking **_hilarious_**.

* * *

_“My tummy hurts.”_

_“Shut up and finish those damn mashed potatoes. Why can’t you be grateful for anything I do for you?”_

_“They taste funny, Mommy."_   
  
_“Medicine always does, darling. Now don’t make me ask you again.”_

* * *

You know how to use a gun, but you don’t particularly enjoy them. Press the barrel between someone’s eyes, crook your index finger just so and _BLAM._ Brains. Curtains. **_Boring_**. Waste of a perfectly good canvas, you think, straddling the corpse and hooking your blade into the corner of her battered mouth. Maybe next time.

* * *

Feminine voices reach your ears and you halt in your tracks. A blonde and a brunette stand across the street, burbling drunkenly to each other. The blonde leans up against her car, tilts her head back and exposes a milky white throat. Under the dim streetlight, you can see breasts heaving in a dress that leaves little to the imagination. Long, creamy legs wobbling in an attempt to remain upright.

 _Predictable. Easy pickings._ **_Stupid cunt_** _._

Your eyes flit over to her friend’s, pleasantly surprised by the clarity reflected back at you. The brunette blanches, then reacts, hissing the bimbo’s name and rattling car keys in her face. _She wants to leave._

This one’s smart, you think. This one will put up a fight.  
  
You’ll kill her last.

* * *

“Is there kindness in you? Somewhere in your heart?”

The little wisp of a woman looks at you tearfully — nothing but skin and bones, drowning in her sweatshirt — and you want to laugh and laugh and laugh. You run your fingertips over her baby doll’s porcelain skin, smearing its cheeks with crimson. Whatever happened to your heart, anyway? Was it diseased from the start? Did you carve it out yourself and sell it? If a monster even more depraved than yourself could exist, would it have torn it out and eaten it? Would it become poisoned?  
  
When you have to explain a joke, it isn’t so funny anymore.

* * *

The pigs show up and you’ve got gore caked on your chin and it’s _oh so very typical_ that you have to roll your eyes. ( Er… _eye_ . The brave one’s shrieky-voiced sister managed to rip it out not that long ago, but you’ve gotten plenty even with _her_. ) 

What’s that saying again — violent lives end violently? Fuck knows where you heard it, but it carries a sense of inevitability you made your peace with some time ago. They roar at you, commanding you to put your hands up, and you reach for the gun strapped to your ankle. Suck the barrel down and whirl around to face them like some kind of Hollywood starlet caught blowing her producer for extra screen-time.

You pull the trigger. You go out riding high with a smile on your face. 

* * *

Hell is cold but her voice is colder. She grasps your filthy jaw and wrenches it upward, forcing you to look into black, depthless eyes that remind you far too much of your own.

“We’re not finished yet, Arthur,” she rasps. “There’s important work to be done.”  
  
Her grip is bruising. She presses an icy kiss to your forehead.  
  
“Don’t fuck it up. I’ll be watching closely.”

* * *

You leave the morgue with blood sloshing in your shoes and the scent of brimstone clinging to your clothes. The tune you whistle is merry, nameless, and you skip along to it. A glob of grey matter slides out the opening at the back of your skull and spatters onto the pavement.

You’ve never felt more alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun piece of trivia: The title of this fic comes from the old Henry Hall song, which appears on the soundtrack of one of my all-time favourite horror films, _Jeepers Creepers_. It was also the working title of that film. Call it a shameless plug but I thought it worked pretty well for Art too.
> 
> Comments, kudos, etc are appreciated! Feel free to reach out to me on my Tumblr (listed on my profile) if you’d like to talk!


End file.
